Shannon in Wonderland
by the Unrequited Lover
Summary: Shannon’s descent into the rabbit hole wasn’t filled with marmelade. Poor darling! The jar says “Drink me”, and glitter doesn’t go down easily. [Hints at Shannon with Mandy, Jack, Cooper, Angel, Malcolm, and anyone else I fancy.]
1. Confusing Odour of Roses

_How does the 20th Century Sibyl Vane become a vicious metal hound? What strange alchemy is at work here, what manner of replacing each speck of cell with spot of glitter and cold? How does she convince herself that a white rabbit will become a white steed, or think that a swan hides a princess—when the pack rises up and one discovers they are a deck of cards, all 2-dimensional? Or is it before then, possibly; when it is made plain that a ladder to the stars cannot be climbed while it's made of smoke? Oh, to climb, as simple as to fall, down a rabbit hole, or from the spangled chandelier. _

_When does Alice turn to malice? For that, my dears, it is necessary to learn what makes Little Miss Muffet sit where spiders are about, why a child might ignore the warnings of perfect poison that reach her ears and trust a stranger to tell her the truth, even when she knows enough to see a lie when she hears one. To depart from the teacup and the tried and true tradition, to find the bottle and uncork it._

_Drink me._

**I.**

'Have you read him?'

'Who?'

'Wilde.'

Cooper was characteristically calm, draped across the desk, and her hands were shaking with nerves as she looked up at him. Every muscle was relaxed, casual—done with a calculated nature that almost terrified her. It _seemed_ so easy. It seemed so—a catch in her throat—so real.

'Yeuh—yes,' she answered truthfully, dropping the number 2 pencils caught in a rubber band into the drawer and shutting it, then bringing her hands up to her face. Her fingers traced her Cupid's bow, but none of the lipstick smudged onto her nails. She was looking at him with a sense of quiet, almost like a mouse.

'Re-read him,' he said. Agile movement, one leg kicking over, then the other, then a swift, fluid spin as he turned to face her again. Her eyes switched onto his in a moment; his twinkled. Had he possibly noticed the way her eyes had lingered as he'd leaped down, with that grace, so like ballet? Just a brief glance, devoid of intention; perhaps really out of curiosity, and she'd made it. But she hadn't meant to.

She didn't tell him so. She was only aware of _him_, as he leaned forward to brush his fingers across her cheekbone.

'Take care, Shannon,' he said. As his knuckles touched her skin their progress slowed, so that when they had neared her jaw, they were almost resting there; she could feel where the warmth was concentrated, almost with intent.

'Hm,' she managed, eyes as innocent and attentive as she could have them. His expression was more closed; he seemed almost brooding, dark eyes intense for a moment, and then he was gone. "Hm," she'd said. Like, "hm, that's interesting," or "hm, I think my gaze shall now accidentally drop down;" though, thankfully, it hadn't.

"Take care, Shannon." As though he'd meant it. As though it was—had to give the door a jerk before it would open—was real.

**II.**

It was so unlike her to leave her things packed, but they'd only just returned from America and she had so much to do that when they'd gotten off the plane, she'd only deposited the suitcase and collapsed onto the bed, "A dream in lace," as her mother might have said. "A vision in white."

Oh, yes, a vision, a dream, a ghost. Shannon found herself nodding as she lifted the nightgown from last night in one hand and a large leather bag filled with books from the public library in the other. Something entirely anachronistic.

White lace crumpled to the floor. Cotton, high collar, buttons up the front, long sleeves, long skirt. She could hide her ankles in it. All her hair, light brown and streaming, fell down around her shoulders, and if she stood before a light, her mother said the outside of her hair would be illuminated blonde, like an angel's halo.

Ghost, ghost, ghost.

Angels, that was something else. The only image of an angel she had anymore was filled with sequins and polka-dots and loud, loud colours. Vibrant fake wings, red with silver glitter on them. Each fake red feather equally soft. "Oh, Shannon, you're a _dear_." Dove coo, obviously high and affected—like the shoes she tottered in. High heels; that demure little strut, affected. Pretty little hand, extending a flower out to her, and she took it.

Shannon almost never left her nightclothes on the floor, or anything. But there on the apartment floor was her nightgown, just where she'd dropped it. Then she seated herself on the edge of the bed and tugged her shoes off before scampering back over the seats, tugging the brown leather back along with her and then sitting on one hip, her knees drawn up.

As though she expected a wealth of gold or paper dolls to come out of it, she turned the bag upside down. Library books tumbled out, bounced on the bed. Only one was face up.

_The Picture of Dorian Gray._

She opened the cover page and skipped the preface, which she remembered not understanding when she'd read it in high school. The pages flipped through her shining fingernails and then she tugged the book towards her, lifting it up nearer her eyes.

'The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses,' she said, her voice hardly anything to fill a room with. Nonetheless she would continue out loud until she was into the story sufficiently; soft-spoken and often silent, it was a paradox in her nature that had never occurred to her. 'And when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees…'


	2. Stylish Marrying Americans

**I.**

'Listened to my advice, I should hope,' said Cooper, one elbow up against the top of the filing cabinet, the other making the dainty peak of an elegant triangle as his hand rested carelessly against his hip. 'You should take it to heart.'

Shannon was crossing the room quickly as she heard this, a pile of papers in the crook of her arm. Briefly she wondered how he managed to keep himself wherever she needed to be before moving to the desk, placing another stack on top of them.

'Oh, yes, I did,' she said, then tilted the stack so that they all lay evenly and then carried them over to the filing cabinet, where she knelt down and opened the drawer above his knees, her fingers delicately tip-toeing through the folders there until she found the one she was looking for; Mandy 2 is what it said, and she didn't at the moment give a thought to its meaning when she stuck the pile of papers in there. They weren't typed—sketched up—but she had slowly grown used to that. At that precise moment she had mostly been filing papers, putting off the moment when new costumes would have to be created.

She slid the drawer shut, and glanced over at Cooper—then she glanced up, quickly, and stood. Awkward moment number two. His grin was shifty.

'I stayed up reading well past my bedtime,' she said, offering a small, almost apologetic smile. 'I'd forgotten how well Wilde could write.'

Cooper's grin widened, showing his white teeth, and he laughed briefly. 'The other advice,' and then he walked past her into the other room, where Freddi, Micki, and Angel waited for Jerry to arrive with Brian and Mandy, who would bring Reg, Trevor and Harley along with them. Shannon watched him as he went, that walk that went by so easily in the incredibly high platforms he was wearing. For a moment, Shannon considered that she too was expected to don them; then she decided that she would not do so unless someone specified. Or called her on it, which would be embarrassing. It was trouble enough that she was much shorter than everyone else there, but she didn't want to solve that problem only for everyone to discover that she could barely walk in those shoes. Maybe she'd only ever have to do it if she was expected to go somewhere that housed photographers; and being wardrobe mistress, that was unlikely.

The other advice? She wondered as he passed out of view, then grimaced. The other advice. Take care, Shannon.

Why should he ask about that? She crept towards the doorway, hands clasped together and held down at her side, her mouth shut, her eyes dark and inquiring as she peeked into the room. Why should he have said it in the first place? Unless it meant something, maybe. Take care of what? Herself? Was it a warning or a blessing? A reprimand?

A pair of eyes slid around to the side and noticed her, and then another followed. Shannon took a step backward so that she was not standing in the doorway, but soon enough there was a low voice calling—"Shannon?"

Micki sounded faintly amused, and Shannon stepped into view, tilting her head to the one side, suddenly extricating her hand to push strands of her hair back behind her ear.

Graceful wave of her thin, long-fingered hand, dark-skinned and expressive, coaxing, as if she was being humoured. Shannon took a tentative step into the room, then another; and then she felt as if she was being ridiculously childish and so she quickened her pace, trying to be the businesswoman she felt she was supposed to be.

She'd never tried to be a businesswoman. She had just intended to be someone's secretary, though why she'd done that, she could guess either. Typing didn't have that much appeal, did it? Was the scent of rubber cement so enticing?

Why couldn't she be professional, though? Imagining that this was something other than what it was, she could picture stepping into the room, saying listlessly, "Are we waiting for Jerry, then?"

A nod, perhaps, and Angel would straighten her business suit (and probably be named Angela or Amelia) before asking if anyone knew whether or not there was coffee in the lounge room.

And that would be before Cooper fixed his tie and telling her he wouldn't know because he never drank it.

It was monotonous. It was temporary. Shannon had never meant to do secretarial work forever, and while it was boring, it was conventional, predictable, dependable. Here everything went in whirlwinds without promise of stopping.

'At what time did Jerry say he was going to be here?' Shannon asked, trying to make smalltalk. Four blank glances met her in the eye for the immediate two seconds (she supposed no one ever said anything so to the point among their circles) following, and with their eyes all on her, no one but Shannon seemed to notice the door behind them open as Jerry Devine, cheroot in his fingers, entered the room; he stared at her for a moment as though he'd never seen her before.

Shannon stared back and then her brow furrowed, and suddenly she felt like squirming and dashing out of there, as though all the time that had just passed hadn't really happened, and she could turn around and run through the door and out of Bijou Music and not look back.

And she didn't look back. In fact, it was the other four who looked back, and all gave insincere and laughing greetings to Jerry, followed as he was by Trevor, Harley, and Reg; Mandy had a grin on her mouth even as her lips were curved around the tip of her cigarette holder, and then finally, heading in last, Curt and Brian, laughing already at something, arms around eachother. Curt reached around Brian's waist with the arm that wasn't already around it to throw the door there shut.

Shannon averted her eyes carefully as Mandy sauntered over to Angel and they began to giggle in whispery voices, as Jerry walked towards the centre of the room where he lifted a paper off of his desk.

'What are we doing next, Jerry?' Micki reached forward and stroked several pearls on the necklace around Angel's neck. Her expression always looked like the same thing to Shannon; amusement that had frozen on her face at a moment when she felt muted horror. It made her smiles seem unreal at times, and uncomfortably convincing, even if only mentally; emotionally, she could never reconcile herself to them. Something she couldn't do to anything, lately.

Cooper leaned forward from where he stood and whispered something into Mandy's ear, and they exploded with smothered laughter. Shannon glanced up at their faces again, briefly, before turning her head to the other side, fringe obscuring her face at the angle it was held, watching Brian and Curt. The latter sat in a chair, while Brian had himself slightly draped over the chair arm, one of his own arms lying back and stretching across the chair back, where the fingers of his hand just barely touched the strands of Curt's hair. Neither one of them way giving all of their attention to Jerry. There was so much affection there, Shannon realized. Then her glance shot over towards Mandy, still laughing.

Mandy laughing, Cooper standing behind her, Angel to her left, and Micki behind that, one of her hands resting elegantly on Freddi's shoulder.

Brian and Curt, secluded, somewhere else, an island, surely.

Shannon couldn't make sense of it. And that's when she realized that Jerry had been talking for some time.

'…now that we're back,' she caught, and then she peered over at him. The cigar met his mouth again, and the smoke that curled up afterwards seemed to be slithering away from his lips in revulsion. Shannon couldn't stand smoking; unfortunately, everyone smoked here. Except, of course, Angel never did, not with Shannon around. Shannon managed a half-glance in her direction, only to find that the red-haired woman felt eyes on her and glanced over with a half-cocked smile and a quick, fake wave. Seconds too late did Shannon look away, feeling conspicuous, as Angel practically pranced over, making her tiny steps across the room as Jerry went on.

'And if we're going to come back to them now, we'll make our way in style;' the words curled like the smoke did, steady, confusing, insidious. His eyes were on her now. Not on _hers_; she glanced up, and still it seemed that though their eyes met, he was looking at her, all of _her._

Angel's fingers fluffed up her hair with a fond smile plumping the apple of her cheek, and Shannon turned her head down so that she wasn't being watched, in the direction of Angel's hand.

'What is it?' she whispered in a barely audible voice, her eyes hesitantly meeting Angel's and her lips hardly moving at all.

Angel's eyes were sparkly, and she turned towards the group with ferocious, feline energy. 'Well of _course_ we'll be stylish!' she cried, in what was a little like a shriek; Shannon was looking out of her, and though Angel didn't look back, Shannon felt instinctively and intuitively that the woman could see her with her peripheral vision. 'Shannon's being doing _loads_ of work, Jerry.'

And then the supportive voices came from everyone else, the nods, and the agreement, and Jerry only held his cheroot and cocked his head. 'Fantastic,' he said, and lifted the cigar as though in a salute before the end came down to his mouth again.

Shannon could only nod her head, barely able to look up, her fingers twisting themselves in her own grasp. 'Yes,' she said, still nodding, after the voices died away. 'Yes, it'll all be fine.'

A concert? She looked at the piece of paper in Jerry's other hand an squinted. Yes, she recognized the name of the club printed in bold letters at the top; and then she looked at Jerry again, to find he was looking at her.

Somewhat awkward, she glanced around. They all were. She bit the inside of her lip and tried to compose her expression. Brian and Curt were looking at her when her eyes turned in their direction, and the moment they noticed they looked at eachother.

And then Shannon got the sense of someone else looking at them, and turned her head towards Mandy, attractive in a false sort of way, charming without setting one at easy, and her accent obviously faked, put on. She knew Mandy was American, Brian's American wife. It was a little strange, but here Shannon could swear she was watching Brian across the room, sitting on a chair with Curt…

But she couldn't prove anything, for Mandy felt eyes on her and looked up. It was strangely silent in the room.

'Well, darling, just show me the designs tomorrow,' Mandy said in a higher voice than she usually had, giving her head a strange little toss and bringing her cigarette holder to her lips as her eyes rolled about in her head, a smart little smile lingering about her lips. 'I'm sure they'll be _fabulous.'_

**II.**

'…_And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain't English girls good enough for him?'_

'_It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.'_

'_I'll back English women against the world, Harry,' said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist. _

'_The betting is on the Americans.' _

'_They don't last, I am told,' muttered his uncle. _

'_A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a steeplechase. They take things flying. I don't think Dartmoor has a chance.' _

'_Is she pretty?' _

'_She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm.'_

Shannon paused in her reading. She was no longer speaking things out loud, but for a moment she hesitated, and then a finger absent-mindedly touched her lips, for once bare of red lipstick.

'She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do,' Shannon repeated in wonderment. Then she cleared her throat. Was that how Lord Henry Wotton would say the line? She thought not. 'Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm.' Shannon paused again, and tilted her head slightly while trying to dredge up a feeling of lethargy and listlessness.

'She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm.'

In a moment she had rushed out of the room, leaving the book sitting there, open on the bed. She had suddenly remembered needing to draw up sketch designs for a concert Brian would be giving in a matter of time. And yet, there had been another reason, for it was only 7 o'clock. The phrase had been so jarring, and her voice had been so unlike her…

'_She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American woman do…'_


	3. Someone To Charm

**I.**

Mandy was very quiet for a long time. It was, Shannon decided, a very good thing that _she_ had the sketches in her long-nailed hands, because if she had them, she would have been twisting them into knotted messes in her nervousness. Not much help, all things considering, especially if all those concerned decided that they actually liked them.

Mandy blinked while reading, and Shannon noticed that that blink seemed very different from the others; long, and slow, drawn out and dragging on. Her eyelashes seemed to be trying to carve gouges into the air. And then her eyelids lingered shut a moment longer, as though she were casting a net around inside of her head for memories. When her eyes opened finally, Shannon found that she had looked in her direction sometime during that long blink: Mandy's eyes were right on hers.

'They're good,' she said blankly, her voice jarring. Then she tossed her eyes up to the top of her head and made a fake little yawn, lifting one hand to her open mouth and fanning it lazily. 'And I'm _so_ extremely tired. It has, I assure you, _nothing _to do with you, Shannon dear!' She gaze Shannon a lazy, indulgent smile that felt like a smirk. Before Shannon could speak, Mandy deposited the drawings down upon the table and walked around her jauntily. As Shannon gathered them up hastily, she realized that Mandy's voice had jarred her simply because it hadn't been jarring; not nearly so high, not nearly so strange. And her accent…it hadn't been anything remotely British…

The expression of blankness. Had she been dumbfounded? Had Mandy Slade, for the moment, forgotten her image in shock at Shannon's sketches and spoken in her natural voice?

Shannon looked at her as she paused in the room, dragging the tip of her feather boa down Trevor's chest, then laughing. She didn't seem to know Shannon was watching her, and the girl wondered what on earth could have surprised Mandy about the costume ideas.

Shannon had been surprised. A pen had been drooping in her hand and a pad of paper she'd picked up from one of the drawers on her way out had lain propped up against her knee as she had sat on her bed for minutes and minutes, wracking her brain for ideas, her heart sinking in the process. Finally she'd hastily drawn out something she thought that, perhaps, Dorian Gray might wear in this modern time. And then she'd shut her eyes, scrunching them up very tightly as she always did before she felt she might panic.

When she'd opened them, she'd been surprised at her ability to see her surroundings more clearly. The fog of earlier had evaporated, and she was simply staring down at a pad of paper with a man's outfit drawn on it.

And then she'd blinked, and moved to write in the names of colours down, little arrows pointing. Inside fabric that pattern, coat made of this material, so on and so forth until she was actually somewhat surprised at how the image appeared in her mind.

The outfits, she recalled, had all been drawn one by one, and each one of them flowed more from the pen than from her, it felt like. Each was absolutely alien to her and not a one struck her as being artistic or personally pleasing. And every one of them, she had been sure at the time, was a pretty passable costume. When she'd finished, she'd been pleased with herself, surprised by how much time had passed (nearly 11 o'clock, Shannon, it's really time to sleep), and then, as she'd tried to sleep, disturbed that each design seemed mechanical to her. A creative endeavor should have been fluid and almost seductive, shouldn't it have been? And here it had all been utterly uncreative. It had been like a formula in her maths class. X is a function of Y. If X equals this, then Y equals this. She supposed X was inspiration; the modern Dorian Gray idea. And Y was something Mandy had been shocked by as she held it in her hand.

She hadn't really needed to show Mandy, though, had she? Shannon turned back to the papers and thought about this briefly, before she realized that Mandy had just said that the previous day as a way to stop Shannon's ceaseless staring. She felt guilty about thinking that the moment it occurred to her. No, Mandy might have truly meant it, mightn't she? There was no reason to believe that she hadn't really wanted to see the outfit sketches once they were finished. After all, Shannon mused as she headed towards the door into the next room, where she believed Jerry was (and _he_ was the one who needed to see the designs before they started to sew them), Mandy had been Warddrobe Mistress for Brian first…

**II.**

Shannon made a slight sound in her throat as she stumbled backwards, nothing articulate, of course. And immediately she dropped to her knees, eyes widening, to gather up the papers as she'd just dropped them.

She hadn't meant to walk into anyone on her way into that room, she realized, and felt like a complete fool. Pray let it not be Brian, she pleaded with higher forces silently. Or Freddi, or Micki…well, it had probably not been Micki. She had been fairly sure it was a man at the time, or at least had one's body.

She saw someone else's hand touch one of the papers a ways away from her, and then she glanced up, pausing. It was Cooper. She'd stepped right into him just as she'd turned into the doorway, and he had apparently bent down to lift up one of the drawings closest him.

He was looking at it with an unreadable, unfazed expression. But there was something about it that reminded Shannon of the way Mandy had looked at them, totally silent. Shannon pulled the rest together and stood, shuffling through to make sure that they hadn't been torn or dirtied or crumpled. Then she approached Cooper tentatively.

He looked at her and handed her the paper without so much as a second glance at it. His lips were smiling almost grudgingly, as though there was something funny he knew but felt he'd best not tell her.

'Fab,' he said briefly, and then his head went over to the side, a dark curl slipping into his eyes. Shannon felt a sudden impulse to reach up and push it away, but it was a madness. "A place for everything and everything in its place;" well, possibly not here, in this context. And perhaps someone in Cooper's situation needed stray strands of hair to blind him. She thought about that in just a moment before he continued to walk the rest of the way into the room.

Remembering the formula and the things she'd put into it suddenly, she made a small shuffling step after him and, hesitantly at first, reached out her hand to touch his arm and grasp it, pull him back. She touched skin, just above the elbow and beneath the tight t-shirt sleeve. He seemed surprised, but just looked back at her and lifted his head slightly with a grin. He looked curious at first, then almost pleased. Shannon began to feel the dizzy-headed feelings of being awkward that she often was visited by.

'Theuh…Thanks,' she managed, and then flashed a slight smile, shyly at first. 'For the suggestion. That I read Wilde.' And making me talk in short sentences. 'It's been an experience; I must not have been really reading it before.'

Cooper's smile just widened. 'Been a pleasure,' he said, his voice less sharp than usual, a little more of a drawl. He sounded like he'd just downed a glass of wine.

She remembered that her hand was on his arm and pulled it back, stepping away first; then she turned around and walked into the other room.

**III.**

Jerry stared down at the designs long and hard, leaning forward to tap the tip of his cigar into the ashtray. Shannon coughed slightly into the crook her wrist made when held at an acute angle with the rest of her arm, then felt slightly appalled for not having a handkerchief. She might ask Angel for one later. It would undoubtedly be white with red embroidery, if not outright sequined; but it would still be a handkerchief, and as long as she didn't use it on the bus, it needn't incriminate her.

She still wondered where people thought she was going when she got off at the bus stop. At least she no longer glanced around to see what sort of people were walking by before she entered Bijou Music. If anyone hung around there, it was usually someone of the bejeweled, beglittered sort, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone important, and wondering, most likely, what a girl in tweed who was conspicuously not wearing platforms was doing there. She might have been mistaken for a journalist. Shannon only wished.

Finally Jerry put the designs down. His expression was different; he looked very content, as though things were playing out just as he wanted them; but he did not look cruel, or manipulative, in this respect. Expectant, perhaps. 'Quite right,' he said to her. 'You'll have to decide on a precise design for each person on this list—' said as he slid a piece of paper towards her—'and get their measurements, which are in the file—except for two, which, I'm sure you will note on the paper.'

Shannon picked it up and only glanced at it, noting Brian's name in large letters before looking back up at Jerry, who took a drag from the cheroot before continuing to speak, in the same languourous tone he had used before. 'To have them sewn, you'll have to decide on fabrics—'

'I can't pattern,' Shannon cut in suddenly, a panic seizing her. In fact, she could barely sew, either, and especially not the things she'd drawn. She glanced around wildly, her breath coming in shallow. 'I can't pattern, and I can't—'

Jerry waved his hand dismissively. 'That's all right,' he said. 'You're not the one who'll be doing that. Just give the measurements and designs to the right people—'

'I don't know any people,' she said quickly.

'All on the list,' Jerry continued, almost reassuringly, except he was stating secure facts, and not offering any sort of support. 'I guarantee you, just do that, and then once they've figured everything out, they'll know how much fabric they need for everything, and you've just got to pick that fabric out.'

Shannon's head felt a little like spinning, and she rested one elbow up against the tabletop and rubbed at her temple with her fingers. 'How long should I give them?'

Jerry turned his head slightly. His eyes seemed to contemplating something very insignificant to him. 'Two days,' he said after a moment. 'And so I would suggest, in the meantime, that you do the detailed versions of half of those today, and give those sketches and the measurements to them tomorrow.'

'The more important half,' she cut in, lifting her head suddenly, to find him nodding.

'And during those two days, work on the sketches for the other half.'

Shannon nodded, but her mind was already elsewhere. Two people didn't have their measurements, and she supposed she'd be doing that tomorrow. Brian, Jerry, the band, and possibly Mandy—everyone else later: her mind was already trying to plan out the best way to do things.

Jerry's name was shrieked over in the next room by Mandy; still playing with the boa, possibly? Shannon only blinked as Jerry stood, tapping the cigar against the ashtray once, and walked out.

She glanced down at the list in her hands. There at the bottom, the names of those to contact—finally, someone in this strange group of people who was truly business-minded, and gave her something to really file. And yet, there was something about Jerry too loose, too imformal, to be very professional. Certainly he took the profession seriously. But not quite so seriously as any boss of Shannon's ought to be, she felt. He wasn't aloof enough.

And then, at the bottom of the list of names—right after Mandy's, oddly enough, though why she should come after Angel, Shannon couldn't guess—were two names, marked as being WITHOUT MEASUREMENTS.

Curt Wild.

Shannon Hazelbourne.

She blinked.

She was supposed to have…a costume?

**IV.**

She had lost her place in the book and it made her, for some reason, extremely frustrated, so that she went and worked on costume sketches for an hour straight before she came back into her bedroom and tried to find where she'd been before she'd left the book, open, on her bed (and then walked out of the room; no wonder she'd accidentally lost her place).

Before getting even more frustrated, almost to tears, she attempted to skim through the book and reach her place.

'…_sketch from him. Of course I have done all that. But he is much more to me than a model…'_

'…_next time he calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance…'_

_There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened…_

'…_sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life…'_

'…_the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate, seemed to give his wit keenness, and to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible.'_

Shannon stopped, frowned, shook her head. Too far. The words meant something to her, surely, but not to her memory…and yet, somehow, seemed to say something to her. She bit her lip and then dropped the book down, rushing into the other room, where she sat down heavily in a chair and picked up a pencil, freshly sharpened (others lay on the table and those that had become blunt, she dropped upon the floor. Though she knew it would drive her mad, she was partly interested in what her response would be if she went through all the sharpened pencils).

Before beginning, she caught a glimpse of herself in the dark window in front of her. For a moment, the image of the girl she saw was barely recognizable, despite those long, straight locks she was so proud of, and the high-collared white neck of her nightgown. It was the face, she realized suddenly. It was intense and completely different from the timid smile that she had worn in every school picture since the second grade. It was pale, and there were smudges of makeup around her eyes; difficult to say which was the makeup and which was the lack of sleep. Difficult to tell if it was either, in fact. Might have been bruises. Shannon touched her face.

"Who are you?" she seemed to be whispering to her reflection. But already she heard an answer: "I'm Shannon Hazelbourne," the memory echoed; "I rang up about the position..."


	4. To Judge The Acrobats

**I.**

Dreadfully hard to wrap up the measuring tape. In truth, though it would have sounded a little too silly when said out loud, Shannon had been surprised when it had been handed to her. It was a pale yellow with black marking and numerals on it, and seemed extremely unsuspecting in its aesthetically unappealing normalcy. If it knew just what the measurements it took would be used for it might shrivel up—as though suddenly ruffled, and then it might look a little like one of Angel's necklaces.

No; Angel was walking through the room now. Shannon paused, her head dropped slightly, and reached her hand up to smooth her own hair off of her shoulders and neck with the hand not clasping the stream of coiled paper. Slowly; a tiny, impish smile upon her little lips, the curve continuing up, rounding her cheek, up to her eyes, which turned in a flash torwards Shannon's, the smile apparent even there; red hair falling into her face, her hand propped against her chin in a little dainty fist, a large cocktail ring with what was either a real or a false red gemstone set into it upon her slender finger. She looked like the maddest of all little dolls; no one could possibly make a porcelain doll to look like Angel, and yet there she was, resembling one. Shannon had once had a collection of them. Little things, really; some of them painted to look like Victorian cherubs, some to look like Venetian jesters with masks. Shannon hadn't ever liked them as much as the little girl dolls, the ones she got for Christmas all the time. But now, she thought, would Angel possibly like them? Shannon got a sudden image of red hair dye in her clumsy fingers, covered in plastic gloves as she attempted to turn blonde plastic into red plastic without getting it upon the fair paint on the doll's face; then she heard, as a memory, "Welcome, Shannon! Welcome to Bijou Music…" And then, the fist real image to show up, though she did not know it at first and it disoriented her…Angel, pausing beside the desk.

'Good _morning_, Shannon,' she said, with a little grin and a tilt of her head, setting down her flapper pochette onto the desk. Shannon dropped the hand in her hair suddenly so that it lay at her side, uncomfortable; and Angel suddenly reached over with the one hand, her red-nailed index finger outstretched. Shannon held her breath suddenly, nervous, but not wanting to step away for fear of upsetting the chair behind her, or making herself look a fool in front of Angel. The fingertip found its mark on Shannon's hand, then traced a line past her knuckles, white from clenching the tape, and then followed the curve of the measuring tape, in and out, through a good deal of its length; then Angel straightened her back, and placed the hand on her hip suddenly, grinning widely at Shannon.

Shannon exhaled.

'_Well_,' Angel said, beaming, lifting with her ring-bearing hand the pochette from the desk. 'Are you going to take measurements to-day, Shannon?'

'Yes,' replied Shannon truthfully.

Angel's smile widened, her eyes sparkling as her eyelids lowered slightly, creasing at the corners from the smile. 'Are you going to measure me?'

'No,' replied Shannon, now sounding slightly doubtful and anxious. 'Have I got to? Yours are already in the file.'

Angel giggled slightly, and took a step backwards. 'Then you haven't _got_ to,' she said, and turned to walk away.

Shannon followed out from behind the desk, watching her, and then biting her lip. 'Are you saying—should I do it _anyway?_'

But she pulled her head back slightly, taking a step away, as Cooper came into the room at the same time Angel left it, pulling her hair gently as he did, and causing Angel to jerk her head back with a funny expression, shoving him in the side gently. Cooper stumbled the rest of the way into the room, except it wasn't stumbling; he finally came to a halt beside Shannon, folding his arms across his chest, and pressing his lips together, then looking at her.

'I haven't got to do yours either, if you want to know,' she said automatically, now holding the long paper in both hands, clutching at it even as most of it was on the floor. Cooper made a face that suggested he was going to laugh at something, then shook his head once, looking down, and looked her in the face again. 'No,' he said, and then paused, shifting his position slightly and tilting his head up. 'How's Sibyl?'

Shannon blinked. 'Wh…what?'

'How,' Cooper repeated word-by-word, unfazed, 'is, Sibyl?'

'_Vane?' _inquired Shannon, her lips parted slightly. The name seemed familiar, but at the moment she only dimly remembered the story.

'Don't worry,' said Cooper, reaching forward with one hand and patting her once on the shoulder, his expression one of concealed laughter once more, 'you'll know her.'

Shannon didn't say anything even as he walked over into the next room, raising his voice to call, 'Hey, Jerry!'

And then Shannon blinked, not even noticing that she had been steadily wrapping the tape around her hand in nervousness, and glanced back down at the papers on her desk.

Now, for actually doing her job, what she was being paid for. She exhaled, and then paused.

She hadn't known she'd been holding her breath again.

**II.**

'Oh;' Curt said, laughing hard, 'do you?'

Brian stood a short ways behind him, one arm around his waist, the other resting with his hand over his mouth as he laughed too, his eyes bright and watching Curt.

Shannon didn't know what to say. 'Yes,' she replied, as simply as she had done with Angel. It was a little sudden; perhaps not so funny as _that_, though. But Brian and Curt found it was funny not because she said it, but because everything that popped into their strange bubble seemed funny; at least, that was how it would appear. Growing slightly frantic, Shannon had blurted, the moment Curt had stepped into the room from the direction Angel had gone, laughing over something or other in low tones with Brian, "I have to measure you." And blinking, Curt and Brian had stared at her before laughing again.

'Well,' said Brian, with an attempt at being sly, taking his hand away with an elegant gesture and propping it up on his hip, 'We're all prey to the Wardrobe Mistress, Curt. Comply, please.'

'Yeah, yeah,' Curt said, walking over in front of Shannon's desk as she dove for the end of the tape, unnoticed, and found the proper end; '_Master_ Demon.'

Brian, she saw, as she lifted the tape up, hesitantly wondering about how she was going to press it against his body without actually touching him, had laughed once more, his shoulders shaking slightly, and then he grew slightly more composed, as though thinking about something; he pressed his lips together, and then took another step back, as though to get a good look.

Shannon wished they would continue talking so that she didn't have to worry about being watched; but if she were to try a conversation starter, she knew they would have to look at her, and so she commenced the measuring, clumsily and quietly, extremely nervous about how it worked. Master Demon certainly had some area of control, it would seem, for Curt was extremely compliant, offering to help hold the end of the tape if Shannon had to duck down somewhere else to tick off a measurement; and watching quietly with a smile on his face, shifting his position and in general behaving restlessly, Brian spoke up suddenly.

'I can do that.'

Shannon and Curt both looked up at the same time; the former with surprise at the sudden noise, like a deer in the headlights, and the latter also surprised; his, however, grew into a very wide grin quickly.

'Yeah?'

Brian strode over towards them, more energetic than the languorous walk he seemed to employ most of them time. Without really looking at Shannon, he took the tape from her, and both laughed again as Brian fumbled to find the end; Shannon, not feeling as though she could dare to wonder, went over to see what measurements remained needed.

'All right,' Brian said, growing slightly more calm, after the laughing had died down. 'You. What next?'

Presuming she was You, Shannon glanced down again, even though she had just read it. 'Ah…inside leg.'

Brian pressed the end of the measuring tape up against the zipper on Curt's trousers just as Curt glanced down at him, still grinning, perhaps in response to Brian's muffled laughter. 'She has a _name_…_Maxwell.'_

'Well, excuse me, Mister Wild.' Brian looked up from the measuring tape, and Shannon did not exactly feel she had to look away—at least not immediately, because in just a moment she had glanced down, picking up the papers on a clipboard that she had found, and a pen. 'Is it Shannon?'

She nodded, and then held out the clipboard. 'What is it?'

Brian told her so that she could write it down. And then asked her what the next one was, and Shannon told him, and Brian began to do it when the tape just fluttered out of his fingers; and both of them laughing, Curt's eyes rolled up to the ceiling. 'Jesus…fucking…Christ,' he said, and the laughter continued. The measurements did also, and Brian—Spaceman Superstar, the famous Maxwell Demon himself—continued to go about like an exquisitely liveried servant for Curt, holding up the tape; shameless. And Curt never minded, and never asked him to stop.

Brian just kept asking what the next one needed was. So Shannon would tell him. 'It's the last one,' she added, tucking hair behind her ear.

'Finally,' muttered Curt, before they both laughed under their breath and Brian went to take it. Shannon bit her lip, and glanced away from them for the first time, looking at the room around her. Then she caught a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of people in the next room; they didn't see her or the amused rock stars, but anxiety gripped Shannon again, and she turned away suddenly.

Brian and Curt were still laughing, uninterrupted, as Brian took the measuring tape away, finger on the last number, which he read to Shannon, who duly recorded it just as she knew someone had stepped up behind her.

'Brian? What on earth are you doing?'

There was stunned silence as Brian looked up at Jerry, who seemed, while uninterested, slightly amused himself, and Shannon shuffled back behind her desk, sliding into the shadows, looking at him also. Brian lifted the measuring tape, his open smile growing cocky.

'Measuring,' he said. Curt started to laugh.

**III.**

'You absolutely look like a Christmas tree,' said Freddi pleasantly, walking around her in a wide circle, languourously, before leaning over to look her in the face. It was doubtful that Freddi ever really meant anything that he said, and Shannon, even though she felt near to tears in her frustration, managed a slight, automatic smile when Freddi lifted with one long, languid hand the other end of the measuring tape and flicked her nose with it lightly.

With Angel standing in the background, watching her with a pristine little Angel-smile, Shannon felt a little like one as well. So on display, so…exposed.

'Tinsel,' the red-haired girl said, tiptoeing around from where she stood behind a box of rolled-up, oversize posters to go, 'tinsel is just what _you_ need, Shannon.'

She spoke her name with so much warmth, but there was no way Shannon could have said "Angel"; Freddi, possibly, and most certainly Mandy. Even though he would technically be Mr Devine, she could call Jerry by his first name easily; Cooper, it was probable, and with Micki she had very little difficulty. But Angel was the most affected name ever, and like the Christmas tree topper she resembled, she recalled snow; let a flake touch your lips and it will melt away, Shannon had to remind herself. If the name touched her lips, Angel wouldn't exist anymore. If Angel touched her lips…Shannon averted her eyes suddenly as Angel stepped right in front of her, performing a balancing act on her shoes like some amazing acrobat.

Freddi too was looking at her. They were both impossibly close.

'There, there, Shannon,' Angel was saying, patting her on the shoulder, with a smile. They were humouring her, Shannon realized; when they smiled, not only was it affectation, but they saw her as a child. But even as this idea touched her, it faded—melted like snow—and Shannon knew then that she wanted to be the child, the infant of the group. Pure as driven snow, in fact. It was what she was, and nothing in the world was going to change it.

'It's not easy to measure yourself,' Angel continued. 'Would you like some help with that?'

'Eeuh…' Shannon trailed off, looking away, and pulling the measuring tape, which had been draped over her arm—thus the Christmas tree reference—so that it was all in her hand, unrolling across the floor. 'I…I would,' she said, uncertainly, unable to meet Angel's eyes, and instead looking up at Freddi.

Angel's lips pursed prettily, as Shannon could see out of the corner of her eye, and she reached up to tap her flapper-esque headband, taking a step back, as Shannon handed Freddi the measuring tape.

'All right, then,' he said, making a gesture with his limp hand that she turn around, and she did, thankful that while Angel could see her, she could not see Angel. Freddi's hand lifted her arm, and she held it there so that he might record sleeve lengths and such; and as Freddi went about doing this, she felt the plastic edge of the clipboard touch her side briefly, and turning her head swiftly to the right, Shannon saw Angel lifting it up.

'Allow me,' she said, and the absurd little circus-gesture she gave as a bow of her head made Shannon smile and drop her eyes away.

**IV.**

A relief to discover her place again! They had been speaking of Americans, and how strange it was, Shannon thought, sitting upon her bed with an already-worn manilla folder of sketches, that she hadn't seen Mandy today. Briefly she thought of her, expression pensive. There was always Curt to think of, who was American himself. Although she had been solemn as a little owl before, now she found herself managing a smile at Brian and Curt's own laughter, slipping into the reading of the book with much more ease than she'd been in in a long time. Something about the day made her feel better, a little elated, more pleased. She couldn't put her finger on it; she'd felt uneasy all day. But because the thought of her own unease caused her to become troubled, she thought it best not to dwell on it, and simply read the book. The words were fanciful; but some of them seemed deadlier than others, and Shannon could not help fall into a frown. 

'…the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test Reality we must see it on the tight-rope. When the Verities become acrobats we can judge them.'

She paused here, having barely gotten anywhere; her mind went back to an image of Angel herself, on the tightrope. Was it for Shannon to judge her? She shook her clouded head quickly and went on. But barely a page had passed before she was once again confronted by something she could not read beyond.

'_The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray…'_

'Is it so, I wonder?' Shannon asked, biting her lip. And defeated, she placed the bookmark into the book and placed it, shut, on her bedside table.


End file.
